


Girl, There's a Better Life for Me and You

by captainkaramerica



Series: Welcome to Jakku [1]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1970s, BEN IS STRUGGLING WITH MENTAL ILLNESS AND IS NOT IN THE RIGHT STATE OF MIND, Ben Solo Needs A Hug, Dom/sub Undertones, Dominant Kylo Ren, Eventual Smut, F/M, Fluff and Angst, HIS BEHAVIOR IS NOT INDICATIVE OF VETERANS AS A WHOLE, I Can't Believe I Wrote This, Kidnapping, Light Bondage, Mental Health Issues, Mind the Tags, Nightmares, OR HOW I FEEL ABOUT THEM, Obsessive Kylo Ren, Period Typical Attitudes, Period-Typical Racism, Possessive Behavior, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Slurs, Strangers to Friends to Lovers, THIS IS NOT MEANT TO PAINT VETS IN A BAD LIGHT, Vietnam War, ben is 27 and rey is 17, go watch it, gratuitous use of flashbacks, plot heavily inspired by sweet hostage, rey is illiterate, the 70s were weird, this fic is not necessarily dark in nature but it deals with dark themes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-20
Updated: 2018-09-28
Packaged: 2019-07-07 13:27:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,114
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15909171
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/captainkaramerica/pseuds/captainkaramerica
Summary: The year is 1972. Ben is an English major who's just returned from a traumatic tour in Vietnam, and Rey is an illiterate farmgirl whose truck has just broken down. He offers her a ride but things quickly fall apart and soon Rey is struggling to survive in a place she now has to call home.The struggle for survival quickly evolves into a struggle to remember why she ever hated Ben in the first place.





	1. Part I: The Damned and the Damsel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ben picks up a pretty girl.

_Saigon, 1971_

_He's finally going home. And just when he thought he was finally getting used to the sweat and bugs, too. His cigarette has long since gone out but he can't be bothered to light a new one, letting it get soggy where his lips touch the cheap rolling paper. Could be worse, Ben thinks--Hux chews on his cigarettes. Doesn't want to waste a lick of tobacco, he'd once said._

_A mosquito lands on his forearm and Ben swats at it, crushing it before it can bite him. Maybe the sunset is making him sentimental as he stares at the sky, elbows propped up on his knees, kids running around the stoop he's sitting on. For all the horrors he's seen here, all the terrible things he's done, at least the sunset is pretty._

_The sunset is ruined by the low drone of a B-52 rumbling by._

_Ben exhales and flicks his cigarette onto the ground, rising to his feet. All he has to do is survive another month and he'll be on American soil for the first time in what feels like an eternity. And that's the ticket, isn't it? The war isn't about winning, it's just about survival. And he's managed to survive this long. He can survive for another few weeks._

_He can go home and proudly say that Ben Solo survived Vietnam._

* * *

_Now_

He's been driving for so damn long that he's amazed the stolen junker's managed to get this far. Ben's only stopped for gas once on his drive throughout the state, getting as far away from that fucking facility as possible before having to fill the truck up. The roads all look the same, cracked and winding through the barren New Mexico landscape cut briefly by small towns that popped up along rivers a hundred years ago. Driving through those places gave him a brief respite—something else to focus on beyond his own thoughts and fears.

If he's alone too long, with his own thoughts for company, he feels like he's there again. The sweltering, suffocating humidity of the jungle. The terrified eyes of innocent civilians as he tried to reassure them in broken Vietnamese that he wasn't going to hurt them. The blood, the death, the flies picking at VC and American corpses alike, the sickening sounds of gunfire and screams cut startlingly short, the traps, the bombs, the smoke choking him—

But slowly going insane on his own because of what the government made him do is better than going insane while the government watches him, drugs him up, and tells him everything will be better soon, and he'll get over it. He's never going to get over it. How those smug bastards who never saw half the horrors he had to could stand there and tell him to his face what he's supposed to feel still baffles and pisses him off in equal measure.

Mom was just glad to get him back home. She hugged him, said Dad was at the house, told him how proud she was for him to serve his country. He'd agreed to stay at their place for a month or two while he got used to civilian life. She didn't ask about what he'd done as he sat there in the passenger seat of her tiny Beetle, hunched over, staring out the window with his knees near his chest. Dad never liked talking about his time in the War, either, and Ben remembers a time when he was very young, walking downstairs in the middle of the night to see Dad holding his rifle to his chest like an old friend, eyes glazed over. His gaze met his and there was a silent agreement between them to never talk about it again.

So it wasn't like Mom wasn't acquainted with war, or living with people still haunted by the ghosts of it, so she never asked him during that car ride what it was like to sweat so much it felt like you'd go blind, or to step on a child's decomposing body half-hidden in the brush, or to see a friend bleeding out from a gaping hole in his side, courtesy of a VC trap, as he was rushed to a South Vietnamese hospital on a stretcher dingy with bloodstains of brave men past. She didn't ask, and he didn't tell, not even when the nightmares started a few weeks later and Ben Solo, twenty-seven years old and college educated before being drafted, would wake up screaming like a little kid.

Mom could deal with the nightmares. And Dad understood. He came in one night, put his hand on his shoulder, and nodded gruffly. He knew. He didn't ask because he didn't have to, because he was a bright-eyed youth once ready and raring to go gung-ho right into Jap territory, leaving a kid and coming back three years later a man whose eyes had witnessed unspeakable things. Dad didn't have to say anything.

Dad knew when Ben started sleeping with his knife at night. He didn't tell anyone, and no one would have found out if it weren't for Mom coming to wake him up one morning and Ben, in a blind move to protect himself from enemies an ocean away, swung to kill. That's where Mom drew the line. She told him he needed help, that she'd take him to a nice place with people like him, and, wracked with guilt, Ben agreed.

Except he wasn't crazy, not like the people at the Asylum who screamed themselves hoarse, locked in their own memories of his or Dad's war. Some had been there since the Great War, drooling and decrepit and waiting to die, and Ben knew as soon as Mom left him there he had to escape. A month and one stolen car later, here he is, driving back to his hut on the mountain where the only thing that will keep his demons at bay is the wilderness.

Ben reaches over to turn on the radio just as something catches his eye. Another pickup parked on the side of the road, a slim silhouetted figure waving madly at him beside it. He considers driving by but they're in the desert, at least an hour's drive from the previous town and another two or three from the nearest gas station, and who knows when the next person will come down this way. Ben slows down as he approaches the figure—it's a female more girl than woman, dressed in denim overalls and a breezy undershirt with the sleeves rolled up. Her hair is pulled back, loose strands plastered to her forehead with sweat, cheeks freckled and raw with a fresh sunburn. Perhaps against his better judgment he pulls over, but doesn't take the key out of the ignition. Her youthful face cracks into a grateful smile as she sees him, shielding her eyes from the sun as she walks over to his idling truck.

"I've been out here for a hot minute or two," she says, gesturing to the pickup behind his own. "Thing broke down here of all places while I was picking up a couple things at the next town over. Couldn't make the walk back either way—so I had to wait here for someone to come by. You're the first soul I've seen since I got stuck here." She has a nice voice, easy to listen to. And she drives, meaning she can't be any less than sixteen, nineteen at the most with her slender, girlish build and innocent eyes.

He leans over the console separating the passenger and driver's seats to look out the window and up at her, squinting as the sun hits his eyes. "Where are you headed?"

"Jakku. 'Bout an hour's way ahead—"

Ben grins and shakes his head. "Isn't it funny how these things work out? I'm going there myself. I'd be glad to give you a ride. Hop in." Perhaps as a testament to her innocence, she pulls open the door and climbs in, a kind expression on her face. He'd never hurt her--never wants to hurt  _anybody_ ever again, least of all a plain farmgirl--but it doesn't sit well with him just how easily she accepted a ride from a complete stranger.

The truck is quiet as he pulls out onto the road; she stares out the window, hands folded in her lap, and he laughs suddenly. "Getting into cars with strangers is dangerous these days. Heard about the pretty girls going missing lately?"

"You're real funny," she says in a way that lets him know she most certainly does _not_ think he's funny. "I ain't pretty enough." He keeps his gaze trained on the road, a small smile on his lips as her mirth-filled voice reaches his ears. "'Sides, it's not a good thing to tell your victim that you're gonna kill 'em, is it?"

Ben's humor disappears at the notion he might kill her. She doesn't think anything of it, but it stirs up bad memories. Bad thoughts. Keep it together, Solo. He smiles shakily and looks over at her. "I think you're easy on the eyes...huh." He searches for her name but doesn't recall ever getting it from her.

The perceptive little thing picks up on his train of thought immediately. "Name's Rey. Rey Smith, short for Rachel, but nobody never calls me that, not even my Ma."

"And why might that be?"

She shrugs in his periphery and huffs. "Don't like it. Too fancy, and besides, Rey is easier to spell. Rolls off the tongue too. What's your name?"

"Kylo Ren." It's not a lie, not exactly—it was his nickname among his squad.

"That's not a real name!"

"Well, it's my name, and I'm real, aren't I? So that makes it a real name."

"That's not sound logic, mister--"

"Well, if we're talking about logic..." Ben trails off, glancing over at her and wagging his brows. "I don't think it's very logical for little damsels to be standing on the side of the road and hopping into the first car they see, or for the driver of said car to even pull over to let grubby little girls inside of his car."

She huffs again and crosses her arms. "'M not a little girl--I'm almost eighteen, y'know!"

"Ah, forgive me. I forgot that seventeen-year-old little girls were the authority on logic." His tone is teasing and she smacks his bicep, but she's giggling as she does so. Her hand is tiny but callused, indicative of her labor-intensive lifestyle.

They settle into a comfortable silence for the next half an hour. The drive continues and they've just crossed the Jakku county line when Rey turns on the radio. The static gives way to the tinny sounds of the news.

_"—esident Nixon continues troop withdrawal in Vietnam as the reported death count rises. As for the young men who come home, studies show a dramatic increase in 'shell shock' among new veterans. The government is struggling to address the rapidly rising amount of mentally ill or unstable men by creating popup facilities in all states, preparing for another wave as more come home."_

His hands are shaking, Ben realizes dimly. The ringing in his ears heralds a disaster waiting to happen as the newsman drones on about progress in Vietnam. "Turn it off," Ben whispers, stonefaced. Don't lose your cool, Solo. Don't scare her. She'll send you back--

"Why?" Rey asks, a defensive note in her voice. "Don't tell me you're one of those kooks who wants us to stay there—"

Ben roars and lunges forward, sinking his fist right through the radio as metal and plastic and glass rip through his skin like paper. He doesn't feel the pain, doesn't feel the blood pouring from his hand as he beats the radio into pieces. Soldiers don't feel pain. You keep moving through the pain.

* * *

_"Soldiers don't feel pain. You keep moving through the pain. Come on, Dameron. Get up." Ben chokes up when Poe's shaking hand grasps his own. He's laughing, the sick bastard, and Ben has half a mind to smack him since laughing makes his lungs fill up with blood even quicker._

_"I don't think I'm gonna get up, Solo." He's never called Ben by his proper name before and that in and of itself makes him want to weep. One of his closest friends in this godforsaken hellhole is dying and all he can do is joke about it._

_"Goddamn you, get the hell up! We can patch you up!" Ben is desperate now, trying to drag Poe's body towards the encampment. It's a good few miles away, but in Ben's frenzied mind he can't think logically, he just wants to save his friend. "You've got a family, Dameron! You can't just fucking die!"_

_"This is the end of the line for me, buddy. You gotta live for me now. Get outta here, you know they're gonna be back." Poe's hands lose some of their grip on Ben's wrist, slackening ever so slightly. "Soldiers work through all kinds of pain, Solo, not just the ones you can see. You gotta live for me now."_

_"Fuck you," Ben spits, tears gathering in his eyes. "Fuck you."_

_"Do something for me, though," Poe says, grinning a tired, defeated smile. "I got a picture of the missus and my daughter Bebe tucked in the jacket a'one of my spare uniforms. Take it out, give it to them for me. They're livin' in Mexico now, said so in a letter I got with the address. The letter's in the pocket with the picture. Give it to them for me, will ya?"_

_"I'll do that, you goddamn glorious asshole." Ben whispers, and turns to run into the jungle as Poe waves him away._

* * *

He blinks and it all disappears as soon as it came. When did he swerve off the road? How long did it last? Hot tears leak from his eyes as his battered hand trembles, and he looks up and at Rey, who he forgot was even there. Her face is white, concern etched into the lines of her forehead. She leans over, hand outstretched to pat his shoulder, and he slaps it away. Hurt fills her wide eyes and she clears her throat.

"I should go. I'm not far away from my stop, anyhow. Just let me out and I'll walk from here." Fear lances through Ben's chest and he scrambles to hit the lock on the door before she can exit. For the first time since he's seen her fear clouds her wide hazel eyes--she hadn't even looked scared when he was destroying the radio, he realizes.

"Kylo?" She says in a very small, uncertain voice. "I need to go. Please unlock the door."

"You'll tell them," he whispers, looking over at her. He must look like a fucking wreck--he feels like one. Cold sweat drips down his neck. He feels like he might be sick. Can't go back, won't go back, don't belong there, nothing can help, nothing will help--

"W-what? Tell who?" She stares at him like he's a monster. Oh, if she knew the things he'd done. He  _is_ a monster. Pretty little farmgirl, so far removed from death and destruction and fear and decay and sickness and uncertainty. It's war, it's what we do, it's war, you can blow that gook's brain's out, go on Solo, gooks are animals, remember what they did to Dameron...

"You'll  _tell them_ _!_ " Ben snarls, letting his head drop against the steering wheel. "You'll run right up to them, and have them drag me back. I won't go back. They made me kill, and now they pretend like I'm the one who's in need of fixing. The fucking pawn in their shit game of money and murder and at the end of the day, it doesn't matter who's wrong or right, because the battle is lost is as soon as blood is drawn."

"You say a lotta big words," Rey says timidly. She's trying to ease the mood. It won't work.

Ben looks up at her one last time. She'll tell everyone about him. About what a monster he is. About how he needs help. She'll send him right back to where he's just escaped from. He looks at her one last time, and floors the gas. She gasps as they rocket down the rest of the highway, banging on the window and making a hell of a fuss. He's certain she'll attract attention when they reach town, and besides, his speeding truck is enough to catch the eye of sleepy townsfolk.

So he pulls over again, this time pulling the key out of the ignition and pocketing it so she doesn't get any ideas, but not before unlocking the car, a fact which she seems to miss. He opens the driver's side door and hops out, slams it behind him, and stomps around the front of the truck before stopping in front of her door. She's trembling, small and frightened, fear and apprehension plainly visible on her features. She squeaks in alarm when he wrenches the door open and grabs ahold of her thin bicep, yanking her out. She stumbles and drags her feet, digging her heels into the hard, baked dirt of the desert as they approach the covered truck bed. Thankfully, it's covered with a rusted tonneau, and whoever he stole the truck from must have been a fishing buff because yards of net and twine lay in the far corner of the bed when he manages to work the tonneau open.

Rey thrashes and kicks her legs when he lifts her up easily onto the truck bed, standing between her legs and reaching over her for the twine. It's thin but it will work. He doesn't have to hold her long, he just has to make sure she won't get away, and then... Ben supposes she'll just have to stay at his hut for the rest of her life, or at least until the end of his. He doesn't particularly  _enjoy_ what he's doing, doesn't like having to hold her against her will, but then it's either her or him and he is not willing to take the risk of her running to some government flunkie and telling them that he's an escaped basketcase.

Her wrists are bony and thin and he wraps the twine around them in a movement that's quick and efficient. She wails like a hellcat when he lays her on her side and lowers the tonneau over her body, her bangs and shrieks growing quieter as he moves farther away. Ben hops back into the truck and takes off once more.

Jakku is a sleepy, dusty town that's managed to survive for at least a hundred years despite having a permanent population of two hundred at the most liberal of estimates. To the north runs the Jemez Mountains, and Chicoma Peak can be seen on the horizon. The locals rarely hike it, which suits Ben just fine, because he'd built his hut there in an effort to live off the grid and avoid the draft. It didn't work--but at least his home should still be there. He cruises through the main stretch of road leisurely, then begins the off-road trek up to his mountain retreat. The brush is overgrown and has yet to be worn down by wheels going up and down the mountain.

It takes another ten minutes before they reach the secluded plateau where his hut is. It's a small, one-room thing, no bed, stores of drinking water purchased in town every now and then, but he built it himself out of trees he'd felled in the area. To the left runs a large stream with the clearest water he's seen in ages, untouched by humans, and  _fuck_ if it isn't a sight for sore eyes. Ben stops the car for the last time and hops out to fetch Rey.

She's a spitting, furious mess, eyes glittering with angry tears when he hefts her up into his arms. Rey kicks and squirms until she elbows him in the ribs and he sucks in a breath, dropping her.

Ben blinks through the pain and grabs ahold of her ankle as she tries to crawl away. "Let  _go_ of me!" She shrieks when he leans over to pick her up again, this time tossing her over his shoulder.

The hut is relatively unchanged, the old recliner still by the door, the wood-burning stove covered in dust, the large table taking up the center of the room and the stone fireplace built into the wall. He drops Rey into one of the wooden chairs positioned around the table and she glares up at him hatefully, bow mouth curled in anger.

"So what? You just gonna kill me?" Rey spits, and Ben pinches the bridge of his nose to silence the memories always lurking just beneath the surface that seem to pop up at the mention of violence. One of the hooks on her overalls have come undone and he leans down to fix it, a tiny gasp leaving her mouth when his knuckle accidentally brushes her neck.  _Smooth, soft skin_. "Don't you touch me!" She yells, headbutting his hand away as soon as his skin touches hers.

"Stop moving--"

"Then  _get off'a me_ _!_ " Rey shrieks. "Stay away!"

* * *

_"Tránh ra!" The woman is petrified, holding her trembling children close as he approaches. He's dirty, covered in blood that's not his, mud, and sweat. He smells and looks like an animal, but he doesn't have time to care about hygiene. Doesn't have time to care about morals, or whether or not this is right or wrong. She's the wife of a now-dead VC flunkie his squad had captured and tried to get information out of, but all they got was pleading and denials of involvement before Canady, an older man who came of age in Korea, put a bullet between his eyes. On his person they found a tiny, battered photograph of him, a woman, a baby and a young child. Blood stains the corner and parts of it have been torn. The picture is in his pocket._

_His rifle is in his hands. Silently, he slings it over his shoulder, reaches into his pocket, and hands her the photograph._

_Later, he finds out his squad killed the woman and her children. In the cover of night, he exits his tent from the camp they'd set up and makes the trek through the jungle. Their bodies are mangled; one of the children is clutching the photograph tightly. He spends all night burying them._

* * *

Ben sighs and runs his fingers through his hair. "I'm not going to kill you. Please relax." She scoffs.

"Relax? How d'you surmise I  _relax_ , you great big loony?"

"Just listen to me. You're not going to leave, so you can keep house for me. I'll draw up a list of chores for you to do. Just read it every morning, starting tomorrow, and we'll be just fine. You can bathe in the stream but I have to watch you."

Her pretty face wrinkles in disgust. "You're a real nasty old piece a'work, ain'tcha?"

Ben isn't listening. On the bookcase built into the wall is a hand-carved pencil cup; he takes out a pen and rips off a sheet from the yellowing (but still usable) pad of lined paper, then sits at the table again to write down her jobs.

_Rules for Rey_

_1\. Tend garden_

_2\. Sweep once a week or as needed_

_3\. Help chop firewood (with supervision)_

_4\. Hang laundry_

"And I think that's about it. I take care of most of the things around here, but you'll go out of your mind with nothing to do around here. I do have books you can read, as well. Mostly classics or textbooks left over from my schooling." He jabs his thumb over his shoulder at the diploma hanging on the wall, a good-for-nothing piece of paper that cost him thousands in a futile effort to avoid the draft. Then he caps the pen and pushes the list in front of Rey, who stares down at it with a strange expression on her face. She looks up at him, apparently not understanding what he's telling her.

He sighs and leans back in his chair. "Rey, all you have to do is on that list. Like I said, you can read it--"

"I can't!" says Rey so suddenly that it startles Ben.

"Can't what?" He asks, voice soft. "If you can't do the chores, then I guess I can find something else for you to do."

"No, you ass, I can't  _read!_ " She hisses, cheeks aflame with embarrassment. Now it's Ben's turn to be confused.

"You can't read?" How is that possible?

"That's what I said," Rey huffs, pouting in the chair. Maybe four years of an English degree is good for something after all.

Ben rubs his chin, coarse stubble scratching at his hand. Mentally he makes a note to shave in the morning while Rey is sleeping so she doesn't see where he keeps his razor--that way, she can't use it against him. The little thing looks up at him with her brow furrowed in frustration, slouching so much in the chair that her chin touches her chest. He has a few options now. The best one would be to keep her ignorant--that way, she can't distinguish between things, can't read the news, can't tell when people start looking for her. It's in his best interest to let her remain illiterate and to spend her days tending house for him and puttering around blissfully ignorant. The second option is to teach her the essentials, but nothing too complicated, so she doesn't accidentally put lye in his breakfast or something equally horrible. And the third? The third option is the worst one from a strategic standpoint--he'd be teaching her to read completely, teaching her how to write, teaching her how to spell, and opening her mind to the simple joy gained from appreciating literature.

He has no choice but to go with the third.

"Here's what I'll do," he says finally, and one of her brows quirks up in interest. "I'll teach you how to read, how to write, spell, what-have-you. All you have to do in return is just listen to me. Does that sound okay?"

She grumbles a noise of assent and he waves her over. Rey stands up and walks over, hands still bound behind her back, and he leans towards one of the counters that serves as his 'kitchen,' opening a drawer and riffling through for the switchblade he knows is in there. He takes it out and, in one fluid motion, slices through the twine around her thin wrists.

"Thanks," Rey snaps, rubbing her wrists and glaring at him pointedly. "Hope you don't think I'm gonna be your maid--I grew up on a farm. Ain't gonna be your housewife."

Ben chuckles. "Never liked the idea that women were expected to stay at home. My mother worked even though people said she oughta have quit to raise a nice little brood of children, but she never did. Attitudes have changed to match mine since I got back."

"Back from where?" Her voice is small but curious, eyes wide.

He shrugs. "Hell," he replies simply.

* * *

_"Fuckin' hell, Ren, get up there!" Hux yells, the foul-mouthed ginger sonuvabitch all but throwing him at the gun on the back of the A2 as Faggy--whose real name is Mitaka, so nicknamed thanks to his love of not only cigarettes but also cock--slams on the gas pedal. He has barely enough time to get his hands on the mounted M-60 before Hux is shrieking at him to shoot the gooks._

_Ben doesn't think, just squeezes the trigger and the bullets fly out. He watches as someone who can't be more than a kid raises their own Pig and aims directly for him. Ben is quicker, and the teenager falls, dead before he hits the bed of the open jeep he's riding in. Someone shoves his body away and Ben continues firing wildly._

_"Hux, you rat bastard, get your Pig and shoot the other car!" Ben shouts, and the pasty little fuck is loading his own M-60 and aiming it out the open side of the A2 and taking over his position of picking out the VC in the first jeep as Ben swivels the mounted gun and begins shooting at the second. He takes aim right for the driver and, by some miracle, he kills him immediately. The driver tumbles out of the jeep and it continues to move along as another gook soldier takes over. The fallen driver's body is abandoned and rended in two by the wheels grinding over him. Ben tells himself that if he weren't in mortal danger he would vomit at the sight, but really, he's grown numb to the violence._

_He fires again and another human being, someone with a family and dreams, falls._

* * *

Rey hits his arm. "Kylo," she calls, and he blinks. The haunting memory disappears and he swallows the lump in his throat that had built up there. "You're shaking, Kylo. What's wrong?"

Ben grabs her tiny hand where it's resting on his bicep and shoves it away. She has the audacity to look hurt and her face quickly hardens.

"Nothing," he huffs. "Go do something. I'll bring those books out in the morning."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some notes, not necessarily in chronological order:
> 
> \--An M-60 was one of the most widely used guns during the Vietnam War. It was widely nicknamed the "Pig" due to the piglike snort it made when it fired.  
> \--I have taken several creative liberties with Ben's backstory in regards to Sweet Hostage/Welcome to Xanadu. I've also consulted several Vietnam veterans, including my own grandfather, to get as accurate a depiction of the mood of the country in the early 1970s as possible, as well as what triggered a flashback for them or what they saw or heard in flashbacks.  
> \--For the most part, I'm using as much historical content as possible, but for the sake of the story I have had to take some historical liberties. I have no idea if the government actually created "popup facilities," but what I do know is that there was quite an alarming amount of PTSD in young men returning from Vietnam. It was so prevalent that the name for it was simply "Vietnam Syndrome." The term "PTSD" was not introduced into everyday vernacular and was not even a diagnosable condition until the release of the DSM-III in 1980. It was very controversial when it was first introduced, but has since now become accepted.  
> \--Ben drives a 1967 Ford F-100 truck, which can be seen [here](https://www.mecum.com/lots/SC0515-214555/1967-ford-f100-pickup/).  
> \--A tonneau is the term for any retractable or liftable cover on a car. It's usually seen on pickup trucks to cover the truck bed.  
> \--The use of slurs like "gook" is not meant to offend anyone. In the military during the Vietnam War, "gook" was a term thrown around in every facet, including basic training. Instead of calling the North Vietnamese-allied Southern insurgency the Việt Cộng, they called them gooks. Basically, any Vietnamese person who wasn't allied with America/South Vietnamese was called a gook. It wasn't seen as a slur until later on.  
> \--Ben was drafted in 1970 and served until 1971 after finishing a mandatory one-year tour.  
> \--The "A2" Mitaka is driving is an M151A2 with a mounted M-60 on an M-142 pedestal for quick movement.  
> — _Tránh ra!_ means "stay away."


	2. Part II: Trapped, Part 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ben and Rey get closer despite heightened tensions and unfortunate accidents.

_Los Angeles, 1971_

_The second he exits the plane Ben almost bursts into tears. God, if it isn't good to be back home. There's no spitting hippies, but there's no welcome party either._

_Hux strides past him and into the arms of his family, who cry with joy. The rat bastard even smiles, actual joy in his eyes, as his wife and children envelop him in a crushing hug. There's no such thing waiting for Ben._

_In fact, he needs to find his next plane. The one that leads right into Albuquerque. So he walks past the families and right into the airport lobby. He's dressed in his GI uniform, hair yanked back in a knot on top of his head and obscured by his cap. Ticket in hand, Poe's picture tucked safely in his pocket, he approaches the woman behind the desk._

_Her eyes rake over him and he suddenly wishes he was anywhere but here as her lips curl into a small smile. She leans over the desk and, in a conspiratorial whisper, asks "how many people did you kill?"_

_Ben's fist clenches beside him and he settles for placing the ticket in front of her much more forcefully than he probably needed to. "Just put me through on a one-way to Albuquerque," he grits out, the tips of his ears burning. She looks taken aback by his hostility and Ben doesn't feel the need to apologize. She shouldn't have asked._

_He walks away after she hands him his new ticket and, hands shoved in his pockets, Ben shuffles over to a gift shop. He has nothing better to do for the next forty-five minutes so he might as well look around—_

_"Baby killer!" Someone shrieks._

_Ben swallows the lump in his throat through the hot sting of tears in his eyes._

_Welcome home, soldier. Isn't this what you wanted?_

* * *

_Now_

It's been nearly a week now, and Ben is now fully aware of just how much of a handful Rey is. She's smart as a whip and eager to learn, but oh, does she like to complain. Ben suspects that she's been warming up to him however--doesn't fight as much, and he hasn't needed to tie her up since the first day. In fact, she even took care of his hand for him, the one he had destroyed the car radio with, cleaning and dressing it with practiced ease.

Ben now unwraps the bandage covering his battered hand as Rey scrubs at the pan in the sink furiously, brown braids swinging with the amount of force she's using. Oh, she'd been absolutely  _livid_ when they woke up. The little thing had kicked up a right storm when she saw that he had forgotten to wash the cornbread residue off of the pan, and now she can't stop grumbling under her breath about how annoying and irresponsible he is. 

"You know, I can wash it," Ben says as he dumps the used gauze wrapping into the garbage beside the counter, and she glares up at him, head snapping up so quickly her braids slap her face. Her bow mouth is curled into a frustrated pout, brow wrinkled and eyes narrowed.

"Fine!" She snaps, throwing the pan and sponge into the soapy water and throwing her hands in the air before wiping them off on her overalls. Ben jerks his thumb towards the table where the child's workbook he had picked up in town a week ago sits open.

"Go ahead and get started on some reading and writing. I'll check when I'm done." Rey huffs and he hears the squeal of the chair being pulled out, followed by a thump as Rey plops down in it and leans over the workbook. The pan really is being stubborn, but after another five minutes he's finally managed to get rid of all the hardened cornbread crumbs still left on it, dried it, and set it on the dishrack. Like Rey, he wipes his wet hands on his jeans, then crosses over to where she's sitting and looks over her shoulder.

**REYS ~~COMEPLINTS~~ ~~COMPLANETS~~  LIST OF THINGS KILO DOS THAT IS ~~UNOYING~~ DUM**

**Kilo is a bg ~~jurck~~ jurk. I wisch he wuld do the dishus wen he ses he wil do the dishus and not mak ME do them**

Ben chuckles and grabs the workbook from off the table and Rey squeaks indignantly, but merely crosses her arms and glares down at the table as he flips through. Her writing is cute in an innocent, simple way. How he never thought to look through the journal entries he made her write is beyond him, but he's glad he decided to now. Interspersed between painstakingly-copied letters are notes and entries in her shaky, thick handwriting. 

**Kilo maks me rit in heer now. I HAT KILO**

Ben snorts and flips through more of the workbook. Well, at least she's writing. "Do you really hate me?" Ben asks in mock offense, hand over his heart like he might faint. Rey rolls her eyes, slouches deeper into the chair, and huffs a pouty "yes." He ruffles her hair and sits down in the chair at the opposite end of the table.

"Give it back!" Rey cries, lunging for it, but Ben swiftly maneuvers it out of her reach and leans back in the chair to flash her a shit-eating grin. Something about Rey stirs a part in him he once thought long-dead--his sense of humor. When she sits back down, arms crossed and hazel eyes narrowed, he places the workbook back on the table. It opens to a particularly graphite-smeared page and the entry gives him pause.

**Kilo wus yelleng ~~lats~~ last nite. He wus slepeng thoh. I wus scard for Kilo becus he sowndid scard. I wus nut scard thoh. He must hav had a bad nitmar. I gav Kilo a hug in his slep and he stopd screemeng. Por Kilo. I hope Kilo gets betur soon and dos nut hav anemor nitmars.**

He looks up at Rey, whose eyes are suddenly wide as saucers, her face white. "Rey?" Ben whispers. "When was this written?"

She swallows nervously. For some reason, she's trembling. "I dunno, can't remember, but it happens every night I think. You get real loud and sweaty and start movin' around a lot and I get really worried and wonder what gave you the nightmares and I don't want you to have 'em anymore, not because they're loud but because you seem real scared and unhappy, and please don't get mad at me for--"

His ears are ringing and Ben tosses the workbook to the ground, suddenly shoving the chair back and crossing the room to face the fireplace, gripping the shelf above it so hard his knuckles turn white. He's shaking. The humiliation is overwhelming. "I'm not crazy," he hisses, and he hears the scrape of the other chair and the sound of light footsteps approaching him, a tiny hand tentatively resting on his shoulder.

"I don't think you're crazy." Her voice is soft, almost sympathetic, and Ben shakes her hand off roughly. She stumbles back and he looks over as her eyes well with tears.

"You do," he snarls, and her lower lip trembles, but there's no fear in her gaze. Just hurt. The sight almost makes him pause but a fresh wave of righteous rage fills him and he continues. "You and the rest of them. You just want to lock me up because I'm dangerous. Because I'm crazy. Well, who the fuck do you think made me like this? Who the fuck do you think turned me into a basketcase? All those Washington fat cats sitting at their desks, Rey, sending people like  _me_ to go fight a fruitless fucking war we lost the second we set foot there! I wasn't born crazy, and I'm not crazy, and I don't need your  _fucking pity_ , so stop pretending like you care because no one gives a damn what happens to us. What happened to  _me_. They send kids over there for their righteous fucking war and when they come home bearing the scars of it, they don't take the fucking blame, they say we're crazy and  _lock us up_!"

Ben punches the wall then and Rey shrieks. "You'll hurt your hand again!"

"Why do you fucking care what happens to me?"

Rey breaks down into tears then, burying her face in her hands, little shoulders heaving with sobs. "Because I  _c-care about you_!" She falls to the ground, hugging her knees to her chest and tucking her face between her legs. "I don't like it when things are in p-pain!" Rey wails.

Anger of an entirely different breed floods him and the tips of his ears grow hot with shame. He made her  _cry_. Little feisty Rey with the heart of gold and stubborn will is bawling at his feet and Ben wants to punch something again. Preferably himself, if he could. He kneels down to her level and awkwardly pats her back.

"I'm sorry," he says quietly. "I wasn't thinking."

She sniffles and lifts her head up to glare up at him with watery, red-rimmed eyes. "No, you weren't," she agrees. "Yanno, that's exactly the reaction I was scared you were gonna have when you read that. Think you should spend some time outside, Kylo." The way she hides her face again brokers no argument--Rey has just kicked him out of his own house for the moment. And he leaves.

One of the only good things about fighting the VC in their own territory was getting acclimated with their tactics, especially their traps. Ben had always been a quiet kid, but the war increased his paranoia tenfold. It's ironic that the things that once made him fear for his life are now the things he's trying to protect it with. After Rey had fallen into an uneasy slumber the very day they had arrived, Ben took to his axe and knife and started whittling away at sticks and logs for tiger pits.

* * *

_"Don't, you stupid fuck, that's a tiger pit--" Ben shouts, but it's too late. As soon as Faggy's boot comes down on the grass covering that blends all too well with the jungle floor, he falls, and the only sound he hears is a shout that morphs into screams of pain and the blood rushing through his own ears. Tentatively Ben and his squad approach the hole and peer inside, and someone behind him retches at the sight._

_Faggy_ _'s body is contorted in ways the human body was never meant to be. Knife-sharp bamboo spikes impale him and yet the clever goddamn VC made sure that none of the spikes would pierce any of his bodily organs, meaning that he'd die a slow painful death. God, there's so much pain in his eyes. Blood and muscle clings to the spikes where his body had sunk down onto them, and every one of his breaths rattles with agony. Another person behind him begins to pray. Canady slaps the kid mumbling his pleas to whatever god he worships and snarls. "If there was a god, then Faggy wouldn't be fuckin' dyin', now would he?"_

_"Ben," Faggy mumbles. "Oh fuck. Ben..."_

_"Hang in there, Mitaka--"_

_"Ben, you stupid noble bastard, there's no way I'm gonna get out of this," Faggy wheezes. "Put me outta my misery. Please."_

_Ben_ _blinks away the tears gathering in his eyes and shrugs his Pig off of his shoulder, then aims it right for Faggy's smiling face. "You're a good man, Solo."_

_Then, he shuts his eyes and squeezes the trigger. Later that night, in the privacy of his own tent, Ben Solo prays for his fallen friend. If any son of a bitch deserves to get into Heaven, it's Dopheld Mitaka._

* * *

He spent all night digging a series of holes around the perimeter of his house, weaving covers, and shoving the sticks deep into the earth; inconspicuous markers that only he would recognize are littered around, informing him of the danger and where precisely the pits are. Further into the forest he has his standard traps he uses for hunting game, as well as an additional couple of bear traps. He'd like to see anyone try to get even remotely close to his house.

Now, he makes his way around his property, checking on the status of the traps. A couple of snakes have fallen into the pits and he doesn't bother killing them--just an extra layer of protection. 

And that's when he hears a painfully feminine shriek of pain.  _Fuck._

Ben breaks into a sprint, heading towards the sound of the scream, heartbeat thudding in his ears. Rey, Rey,  _Rey_ \--

When he approaches the approximate origin point of the scream Ben looks down and his worst fear comes to life. The cover of one of his tiger pits has slipped off and he dreads what he might see. He's grown attached to the poor girl he's been keeping in his house. If Rey is splayed out and clinging to life like Faggy, he might die. He's aready been the source of enough pain--he never wants to be the source of  _hers_.

 _"Kylo_!" Rey wails, and hope flutters in his chest. Rey doesn't  _sound_ like she's in the blinding pain Faggy was when he stumbled into that VC tiger pit. In fact, she sounds angry. She's certainly  _inside_ the pit, though, and Ben takes a step forward and peers down into it.

Somehow, she avoided falling onto the spikes, although her ankle is swollen and bruised. She winces when she rubs at it and glares up at him with enough fire in her eyes to shame the sun. However, her position also begs the question of why she was even here in the first place. And then Ben connects the obvious dots. She was running away. He has never been so simultaneously thankful and angry--thankful that she wasn't seriously hurt and  _beyond_ angry that she tried to escape.

However, he'll have time to chew her out when they get back to the cabin, because now Rey is in danger and that is a thing he does  _not_ like one bit. Pretty little Rey with her foul mouth and scabbed knees, pink mouth all too often curled into a pout but when she smiles it's like the sun is peeking through the clouds after a long rain. And she's hurt for the second time today because of him.

Instead of saying anything, Ben climbs down the side of the pit on a series of strategically-placed footholds imperceptible to the untrained eye and strides over to her quickly, kneeling down to meet her eye level. She avoids his gaze and he places his forefinger and thumb on her chin, tilting her face up. "How did you wind up here--" he presses down on her ankle lightly to feel for a break and, finding none, continues "--with a sprained ankle, little girl?"

She doesn't say anything for a moment, then sticks her tongue out.

"Well? I could just leave you here, you know." He's not going to, but of course Rey doesn't know that. Her tongue retracts immediately and she shakes her head, wincing when he continues to prod gently at her swollen ankle.

"I was running away," she mumbles, and Ben shakes his head. He reaches for her arm and tries to pull it over her shoulder, but she's too short and he'd end up just dragging her. He stands up instead, then leans over so his back is to her. Then he pulls her up on his back. Her legs wrap around his torso immediately, as do her arms around his neck, and Ben climbs back up the side of the pit. When they reach the top he lets her lower herself off of his back and before she can say anything sweeps her up into his arms and carries her back home.

"You weren't thinking," he says.

"No, I wasn't," she agrees sullenly.

The walk back is intensely awkward and Ben is grateful once he hears the soft burbling of the stream that runs by the cabin. The second he opens the door Rey tries to push him away but he lowers her into one of the chairs around the table and grabs the stool sitting by the fire to prop her ankle up. The leg of her overalls has already been rolled up but Ben tugs it up even further, inspecting the injury. It's definitely sprained; her ankle isn't stuck at a bad angle and most of the swelling seems to be trained away from her bones. He'd learnt RICE from Dad, who never really trusted doctors much after his friend had died from a botched surgery. Most of the childhood injuries Ben had were treated at home. He needs ice and bandages and he thanks his lucky stars that just yesterday he ran out to buy ice and still has some compression bandages in his old first-aid kit.

He crosses the room, takes some ice out of the bag in the freezer, dumps it in a bag, and wraps it in the handcloth hanging near the sink that's rarely used for its intended purpose, as both he and Rey find it easier to just wipe their hands on their pants rather than on the cloth. Then he pulls open the drawer with the first-aid kit and pulls it out, the old wretched thing having served him well while he lived here and will continue to serve him so long as he remembers to fill it up. He makes his way back to Rey's prone form and  Ben kneels down, pressing the ice to her ankle. She hisses, tensing up at the pressure, but relaxes a moment later.

"Keep your hand on this, sweetheart," he says gently, and her hand replaces his on the makeshift icepack as he pops open the lid to the first-aid kit. There they are--a pack of compression bandages. He doesn't really have the materials to make a splint so this is all he can really do. Slowly, he wraps the bandage around her ankle, lifting her hand up when appropriate, and soon the injury is properly dressed, all things considered. He stands up, stretches his back, and now that Rey's safe and fixed--

"What did you think was going to happen?" Ben yells, and Rey jumps. "Did you think I wouldn't find you?"

"Well, I certainly didn't think I was gonna fall into some pit full'a spikes!" Rey snaps, now equally incensed. "And I didn't think you were gonna throw a temper tantrum earlier, neither!"

"You could have seriously gotten hurt, Rey," Ben hisses, lowering his voice to a silky timbre that tries and fails to mask his anger. She stares daggers at the ground and Ben leans down, falls back on his haunches to look up into her lowered face.

"Not that you'd care!"

"I just saved you from a tiger pit and dressed your ankle, Rey. Don't tell me that I don't care about you, because I do."

Rey opens up her mouth to say something, then snaps it shut. The little thing gives him the foulest look he's ever seen, which is a feat in and of itself since she's flashed him more than a fair amount of hateful glares since she's been here.

"You're lyin'," Rey finally grumbles after a moment of silence.

"I'm not," Ben says gently, rubbing his hand over her knee. Her cheeks turn the faintest shade of pink at the touch. All of his anger gives way to concern and a strange sense of affection. "I do care about you, you know."

Rey huffs a forced laugh. "Liar. Nobody never cares about me." Her eyes avoid his earnest gaze and he sighs. Poor thing.

"Well, I do. I'm afraid that you're just going to have to accept that fact, little miss." For some reason, her shoulders begin trembling, an almost panicked, feral gleam in her eyes as she begins to search for an escape. She never talks about herself, and perhaps for good reason--maybe he's stepping into sensitive territory. Something happened to this poor girl that made her think no one gave a damn about her and he wants to know why.

He doesn't see the irony in these thoughts at all. Doesn't see the irony in a girl who never wants to disclose something traumatic in her past, and him wanting to know why. Doesn't see how similar they are.

"I'm here for you, Rey. I want to know what's wrong."

And then Rey explodes.

"Me? What's wrong with _me_ , Kylo Ren? What  _fucked_ you up so badly that you dug holes and shoved sticks in 'em so someone'll die? What messed you up so bad you yell an' scream and thrash like the dickens at night? Maybe I'd tell you my own issues if you tell me 'bout yours, y'ever think about that?"

No, he didn't think about that. Hot shame floods him and he shakes his head, clenches the fist not resting on her knee. You can tell her, Solo. You can tell her what's wrong.

* * *

_"Benny, my baby boy, why can't you just tell me what's wrong?" Mom cries, sinking into her favorite chair that must have the scent of her perfume embedded in its every fiber by now. Tears stream down her cheeks and her shoulders tremble with stifled sobs because of_ him.  _Ben wishes he knew what was wrong. He's so far away from the nightmarish jungle hellscapes of Vietnam, so far away from all the bullets and bombs and blood, and yet he can't stop seeing everything like he's there again whenever he closes his eyes. Every night he swears there's another VC gook outside his window, waiting to slit his throat. It's not safe to sleep. They'll get him. He's not safe._

_"Let him be, Leia," Dad says gruffly, old-fashioned pipe hanging out of the corner of his mouth as he shrugs his jacket on. He's going out to see his friend Ben grew up calling Unca Wanwo, and then, once he got old enough to properly form syllables, just Lando. No one likes to talk about his real uncle, his mom's brother, chainsmoking reefer in some commune up in Nevada and spouting the evils of war at every opportunity. The last time he'd seen him was a year before he'd been drafted and he spent the entire time stroking his beard and talking about the ghosts he talks to in the hills who fill him with spiritual wisdom. So Lando might as well be his real uncle._

_"You don't see him like I do, Han! All you do is gamble with Lando and waste money like a good-for-nothing! Our baby boy doesn't sleep and barely eats and when he does shut his eyes he just screams all night, and it breaks my heart!" Mom heaves a great sob and leans over one of the arms of her chair, crying into the cushion. Dad rolls his eyes, takes one last puff of his pipe, and places it on the windowsill._

_"Quit being so melodramatic and leave him alone. Kiddo takes after his father in more ways than just looks." His tone is in jest as he winks at him from under his hat, but when Ben looks into his eyes there is a deep, profound sadness._

_"What?" Mom asks then, looking up at Dad with red-rimmed eyes and splotchy makeup. Ben is a silent observer as his parents pry at old wounds._

_"He's sick. And there's no medicine that can get rid of memories, Leia. I would know."_

_Then Dad opens the door and waves without once without looking back._

* * *

Rey hits his shoulder. "You did it again!"

"What?" Ben asks, confused.

"You--" Rey starts, then throws her hands up in the air. "You do this thing where you go all white an' still, and your eyes get this real far-away look to 'em. Like you're seein' something that ain't there no more, or like you're lookin' at things only you can see. Why?"

He is silent for a moment, then rubs at his eyes. Rey blinks up at him expectantly, something akin to worry in her gaze. Ben rises and lifts her up out of the chair, ignoring her indignant cry, and carries her over to the fireplace where they sit side-to-side on the raised stone panel in front of it. "I've never talked about it to anyone."

Rey's hand rises to rest on his shoulder, and this time Ben doesn't reject the empathetic gesture. "You can talk to me," says Rey softly, peering up at him with her pretty hazel eyes. He chuckles in a defeated manner.

"I guess I can. Where should I start?"

"The beginning," Rey whispers, like she's afraid he'll lash out.

"Then," Ben begins, steeling himself for what's about to come, "I guess I'd better start talking."


End file.
